Milky Way Marmalade

by Mike DiCerto

  Poe 33 stood motionless in the ring as his opponent danced around, brandishing a rainbow-colored candle the size and shape of a regulation Major League baseball bat. Poe seemed dazed and confused, perhaps hypnotized by the crowd or distracted by the song. The solid tube of paraffin bounced across the Portsmith's back, sending the android down to his knees. Strangely, Poe just stared out at the taunting faces, scanning the crowd as Chroostopper positioned himself for the next blow.

  "Poe! Look out!” yelled Caffrey.

  With the odd, rarely heard sound of wax on metal, a shower of candle shrapnel scattered through the air, and Poe fell face-first to the ground.

  "Why is he fighting like a mailbox?” Yin wondered.

  Greppledick, his face buried in his palms, shook his head back and forth as if trying to free the experience from his brain like the last grains of salt from a shaker.

  The two Crustosapian handlers circled the ring, shouting out threats and orders that bounced off deaf ears. Climbing atop one of the wooden poles forming the ring, the Candle Maker held his weapon above his head like a spear and readied himself to dive upon the android. Angie, who'd sneaked across the hall and into the arena, pleaded with Poe.

  "Get up. Get up, Poe!"

  "The Revenant will leave the ring immediately or the match will be forfeited!” came a stern voice over the PA system.

  Whispering a curse, Angie moved away. The Candle Maker and his implement of battle took to the air. The crowd, hyped and wowed, jumped to their feet waving their arms and shouting in spontaneous union “Wax the mock man! Wax the mock man!"

  "This has to stop. We can't risk losing him,” Caffrey insisted, drawing his Willy. Violet agreed, readying her own weapon. Greppledick suddenly sprang to attention.

  "No! Put the gun away, Caffrey. Poe has to finish this himself."

  Caffrey was aghast. “Finish it? He's finished. Look at him!"

  Poe was in deep doo-doo. Held by an arm and an ankle the poor android flew round and around as the Candle Maker spun on a dime. Chroostopper's team rolled a huge, spiked tower known as a Klamash to ringside as the crowd buzzed with anticipation of the impending impaling. The spikes began to glow orange, brighter and brighter, hotter and hotter, as one of the team members worked a huge bellows, blowing on an internal fire.

  "Unless we want our friend to be rendered a well-tenderized grilled ham, something should be done,” suggested Yin.

  Violet brandished her weapon. “We should snatch him up and get out of here."

  Greppledick was adamant. “No."

  Poe's momentum was building, and he was only seconds away from becoming airborne. The crowd was on their feet, taunting louder and louder, “Throw the mock man! Throw the mock man!"

  A ringside worker tossed a ladle-full of beer onto the glowing spikes, sending sizzling snakes of steam rising to stir the crowd's excitement. Poe's expression was that of a child who, after pleading with his parents for hours to ride on the big roller coaster, was sorry he'd gotten his way and now wanted off.

  Caffrey slapped his hand on his chair. “What's he waiting for?"

  Greppledick could take no more. He jumped onto his seat, garnered every drop of strength he had stored in his cells and shouted out and over the crowd, “Do it, Poe! You can do it!"

  Poe heard his father and his eyes widened. With each subsequent rotation above the head of Chroostopper, he locked his eyes on Greppledick's.

  "Come on, Poe! I have faith in you, son!"

  Apparently, the word son was an audible key opening the locked weapons systems of the android—or a sentiment desperately needed by Poe's evolved psyche. Crimson lights, like the igniting of an internal fire, poured from his eyes; and his body began vibrating.

  "That's it! That's it, my boy!” Greppledick collapsed back into his chair.

  Poe 33 was growing. As sparking energy cascaded from his body, the Portsmith, like some time-lapsed advert for bodybuilding, rapidly tripled in size.

  "Is he ... is he getting bigger?” Caffrey asked, not quite believing his eyes.

  "You bet your snow-white, pimply ass he is!” Greppledick bounced in his chair as his face flushed with pride.

  The crowd couldn't believe it, either. Poe 33's skin, like blue-orange mercury, unfolded, stretching as the secret internal workings of the Portsmith added height and width, much like a cat puffing up its fur. The Candle Maker sensed he was in trouble; and turning toward the Klamash, he tossed Poe 33 away like a hot baked potato garnished with explosive chives.

  The crowd erupted again. Rotating his body in mid-flight, inches from the hot spikes, Poe triggered his long-forgotten boot jets. Aiming his fists at the flabbergasted Candle Maker, he flew hawk-like at his opponent. The fists ignited in an aura of colorful fire. Chroostopper turned and dived from the ring, landing across the laps of the front row.

  Great cheers rose as the Candle Maker, scared out of his wits, crawled and scratched and kicked his way out of the hall, screaming and pleading the entire way out. Poe landed lightly on his feet, spun on his heels and sent a crushing ball of flame to the heart of the Klamash, shattering it into a shower of fiery shards. The ringside helpers scattered and dove for cover to avoid the deadly rain. The android turned back to face his friends, his fiery fists at his sides as he posed like an underwear model. The horn of victory sang, the crowd cheering wildly.

  "Doesn't he look macho?” sighed Angie.

  Greppledick raced forward to the ring and threw his arms around his android offspring, his head falling somewhere near Poe's crotch.

  "Are you proud of me, Dad?” asked Poe earnestly as the others came to congratulate him, too.

  Greppledick looked up. “The escort to the wisest being in the universe? Am I proud? If I had buttons on my tunic this crowd would be in danger of losing eyes!"

  "But my opponent ran off like a frightened lamb!"

  "Fear! You instilled fear in his soul! You didn't splatter him into a million pieces. You reacted justly. You reached in and used the great gifts you were granted. By me."

  "So!” Poe dropped his triple-sized head. “You are more proud of the devices you created than you are by my use of them."

  Yin slapped his forehead. “Oh, for the love of crumbs!"

  "Poe...” Caffrey put his hand on the android's waist. “...my uncle was bragging about you all night. Predicting an easy victory."

  Poe finally smiled and began condensing to his usual size. His face was glowing—one might say blushing—as his eyes filled with moisture.

  Greppledick spoke carefully, aware of the moment. “Poe. You have made great strides. I think you are close to being your old, intended self again."

  "You never called me ‘son’ before."

  "My terrible shortcoming. I will never address you without the use of that noun. Son."

  Poe 33 smiled again—but it was a briefly worn expression.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Bat Out of Hell

  I'm gonna hit the highway like a battering ram,

  On a silver black phantom bike.

  When the metal is hot and the engine is hungry,

  And we're all about to see the light.

  Meat Loaf

  The unmistakable pounding of military ordnance shook Grungeygrease Hall. The humming and buzzing of the Fly Craft filled the air and scattered the crowd, the hordes racing off into the night.

  "To the zebadoos!” cried Violet, drawing her weapon.

  Poe 33 grabbed Yin in his arms, and he and Caffrey lead the team toward a rear exit. Greppledick followed and Violet took up the rear. Angie, privately thankful she'd ditched her cumbersome albeit gorgeous body, hovered over the party.

  Chilly night air greeted Caffrey as he worked to gain his bearings. He glanced skyward. There was a swarm! The semi-biological pilots, nothing more than programmed automatons, flew and targeted their prey with the shallow smarts of a fly seeking a dog turd. As they fired volley after volley of energy bolts, the merciless rain of ordnance pummeled the ground,
rooftops and, occasionally, the body of a Heddingtonite. However, luckily for most, the pilots’ accuracy rarely matched their intensity of purpose.

  Running a serpentine path across Bacon Strip Road, the party caught the first waft of zebadoo odor. It was music to their noses. Their plan had anticipated that the Fly Craft pilots, programmed to seek a specific form of target—The Moby Dick—would ignore the small herd of airborne mammals as they rode them through the skies. However, Yin knew good and well that Poe 33 was their prime desire; and having missed a chance at capturing the Portsmith on the desert world of the Blodians, the Flies would fight for their booty.

  "I was hoping to have time to give you some basic riding lessons,” complained Violet as she threw a few rounds of red energy into the skies, scattering a trio of Flies. Poe followed suit, firing a series of blasts over his shoulder like a show-off.

  The nervous hoots and whinnies of their mounts could be heard as the party entered the barn, ducking a fall of fire from the Fly Craft.

  "The zebadoos are antsy,” she continued. “They're not going to be easy for you novices to handle."

  "I trained on the backs of more than two dozen flying creatures during my Rendavene and proved to be beyond adequate at the task,” retorted Poe haughtily.

  "I sort of figured you'd say that, Poe,” commented Caffrey. “I suggest you let Yin ride with you in a side pouch."

  "I would be honored to escort the Bopple."

  "Oh, my!” wailed Angie from outside. “He's dead!"

  "I am not dead!” the old man's voice could be heard disagreeing testily. “But praise be to the great hereafter, I'm close!"

  "Dad!” Poe 33 cried as he raced outside.

  Caffrey, Yin and Violet joined Poe with Greppledick. He was lying on the ground, a perfectly circular hole burned through his center.

  Poe was panic-stricken. “Daddy! Did I do this? Did one of my fiery balls of death inadvertently strike you down?"

  "Don't be so melodramatic!” Greppledick scowled. “Flies! Perfect shot! Provided me with just enough time to say my goodbyes before I return to my paradise at last!"

  Yin stepped up beside Greppledick's face and gave him a tender lick.

  "Goodbye, Mr. Greppledick,” he said softly.

  "See ya ‘round, Yin, you ole cutie poochie. Caffrey! Good luck, nephew, on your little quest."

  "Bye, Unc. Thanks for all the help. Are you sure there's nothing we can do to save you?"

  Greppledick eyed him balefully. “Do that and I'll cut your balls off and play ping-pong with ‘em.” He looked at Violet, winked and said, “Bye, lovely, I'll hold a swing seat under a pretty willow for you on the other side."

  "I look forward to joining you there in the not-too-soon future,” Violet replied, leaning forward to kiss him on the forehead.

  Greppledick grabbed her head and planted one on her lips. She smiled. The old man, very near death, placed his palm on Poe's shoulder and drew the android's face closer to his own.

  "Poe. Son. You're the man of the family. You help Caffrey find the L'Orange and go on about your business."

  "Is there any way to postpone this event? Rework your programming? Give us a chance to get know each other better?"

  "Sorry, son. Too late for that. But fear not! I feel once you get to know the L'Orange you will have no trouble contacting me. Isn't that right, Caffrey?” His voice was fading.

  "No doubt."

  "Angie-girl? Are you near?"

  "I'm here, sir."

  "Be well, my aural beauty. May you find a voice of your own to share with you the grace and compassion you share so easily with others."

  "Oh...!” Angie flew off, sobbing.

  Greppledick gave each a nod and smile then closed his eyes and went off to his preferred level of existence. His body dissolved away rapidly before their eyes, like bodies did in the old corny science fiction movies.

  "Well, that was depressing,” Violet said.

  Caffrey agreed with a sad nod. “I'll miss the old bastard."

  Another series of attacks blasted fiery holes around the group, amazingly missing everyone, like tended to happen in old corny science fiction movies.

  "Onward, mates!” Poe 33 shouted with great melodrama. He flexed and posed with each step as if he were being followed by a Muscles and Pecs magazine staff photographer. The Who's “Won't Get Fooled Again” screamed from his built-in speakers. The party raced back into the barn.

  They were immediately taken aback by the thickening cloud of methane filling the musty building. The herd kicked and blew snotty sprays from their noses. Violet helped each rider mount and guided them to the takeoff platform at the rear of the stable. As arranged, a huge saddlebag of gear and supplies waited. They would take four zebadoos: Satriel, the most productively gaseous of the bunch, was the steed chosen by Violet, as the most advanced rider and best suited for such a powerful gas-blaster; Maris, a sturdy beast with a reddish mane, would carry Caffrey; Poe 33 and Yin would ride upon Mercysis—shy, but fleet of foot and wing. Jupori, the largest of the herd, would be the carrier of the survival gear. Angie, of course, would use her Revenant ability and fly close to Caffrey.

  The zebadoos were lined up and equally anxious to hit the skies. They spread their magnificent wings, flapping and stretching them to get the blood flowing in the powerful flight muscles.

  "Remember, we must fly in V-formation. No aligning with the buttocks of the flyer before you or you'll learn what it really means to be knocked off your high zebadoo!” Violet warned. “Off we go!"

  She gave Satriel a kick; and he thundered down the take-off platform, hitting the air with a kick-off and a gaseous blast. One by one, the others followed.

  * * * *

  Caffrey enjoyed the wind on his face as it cleared the last of the essence of zebadoo poop from his nostrils. It was an odd sensation, looking down as the rolling hills of Heddington passed below without the safe, warm womb and windshield of The Moby Dick's cockpit.

  The party had formed a rather poor excuse for a V-formation; and Violet continually glanced behind, ordering shifts in positions with hand gestures and barely audible commands.

  As the landscape blurred in swatches of greens, yellows and reds, Caffrey recalled his flights to the realm of the L'Orange. Every since he partook of the tiny dot of the orange, wondrous substance, he'd felt transformed—transmuted, as if a giant church bell had rung and shattered the steeple windows of his mind. Although he couldn't yet control when he could climb the spiraling staircase and peer out at this newfound overlook to the universe, he felt gifted.

  Caffrey had seen his share of oddities and enigmas throughout his days as an exotic meat collector; but this ability to peer into, as opposed to on to, the essence of the Cosmos, filled him with a conflicting duality of humble and boastful feelings. Before his confronting the L'Orange and its power face-to-face, there had been a veil over all of reality. It was a universe of gravity, kinetic energy, stars, planets, psychotic zealots, random events, impatience, sex and life's nasty habit of relying on the death of others for its survival.

  Yet, when the silken veil was lifted by the gentle breeze of his mind's own illumination, all of those certainties were found to be quite irrelevant. They were the posh posers at the Grand Cosmic Ball, while the invited guests of honor all partied in the secret back room with the best food and top-shelf booze. And those guests were the ones Meaning and Wisdom selected as dancing partners. Harmony. Purpose. Music. Love. Nothing was random. The path was clear. Infinite forks on infinite roads to infinite places.

  Yet it was all a single cobblestone on a single road. Caffrey was getting a headache thinking about it. It was all too much to comprehend—as though his hand were being held as he was taken on a tour of the rest of his life. He wasn't sure he enjoyed the feeling of being chosen—of being so special he took priority over the Portsmith himself.

  His stomach twisted as Maris dipped a few feet on a bubble of turbulence. The distant hills were suddenly distant no
more, and the carpet of the forest was approaching. Beyond that, the craggy spires and teeth of the mountains loomed like a wall, cordoning off infinity from his view. Caffrey took a deep breath and nodded to himself. I'll land. We'll trek to this chapel. I'll enter the realm of Nefarious Wretch and ask nicely for the return of my friends and plead with him to not so much as think about extracting another world. Then I'll return to The Moby Dick, head back to Earth and spend the rest of my days writing and performing with Marmalade Skies and drinking beer at the Crimson Court Pub.

  Caffrey smiled as the chain of events of his dream was laid out like a daily planner. Without warning, in his mind he heard a chuckle. It's nice to have aspirations. Confused, he decided it sounded just like Greppledick. He looked around; and obviously the voice came not from any of his friends, who were all rather too busy holding on to the manes and reins of their respective zebadoo steeds to contemplate conversation. Caffrey smiled and sent out a greeting—the sound of caramelized sugar and the smell of a martini shaker.

  You can use simple words, Caffrey, the L'Orange replied.

  What happened to “out of the box?"

  Sometimes the obvious is out of the box.

  I suppose, Caffrey thought. So, is my desire for a simple solution to this mess too much to ask for?

  Isn't it always? Yet, I must say, your determined spirit and honest desires are what endear me to you.

  I thought it was my bloodline.

  The substance of perfect wisdom does not play favorites to the upper crust, nor to specific strains of the combinations of hemoglobin, plasma, platelets, granulocytes, lymphocytes, monocytes and what-have-you. I like you, Caffrey Quark.

  Why? Caffrey was baffled and truly wanted to know.

  Because you have crossed oceans of cosmos, faced some of the most arrogant, life-despising beings, and are now risking your life a thousand meters over treacherous terrain on the back of a lovely albeit moody beast, all so you can get home and play music.

  And save the galaxy. Caffrey felt the need to go for a few brownie points.

  That, too. But your sincere love of the fabric of existence, not for profit or for corrupted use as a mind control device but for the honest bliss it creates, speaks volumes of you as a part of the grand song. Do not, however, for a moment think you are special. Every critter that exists, from the single-celled genius amoebas to the fifty-billion-ton asininibullo, every rock, every speck of comet-tail dust, every sound uttered and every bandwidth of energy that propagates, has within it the ability to tap in to the knowledge that I represent.